


Executive Privilege

by raja815



Category: Star Trek: Mirror Universe, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Comment Fic, D/s, Facial Shaving, Fade to Black, M/M, Power Dynamics, Shaving, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raja815/pseuds/raja815
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mirror!Spock has his little indulgences, and Mirror!Kirk has his as well.  Shaving kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Executive Privilege

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a comment fic prompt that wanted mirror!verse shenanigans and questionable facial hair. I somehow took that to a shaving kink place. 
> 
> Incidentally, the working title for this fic was "Beard Shenanigans."

"You could use the sonic depilatory," Kirk said, from where he leaned against the far bathroom wall. Spock's eyes flicked to meet those of the captain's reflection in the mirror, and a thin, cold smile curled slowly across the captain's face. "Or at least a safety razor."

"Indeed I could." Spock said. "However, I do not intend to."

He drew the gleaming antique razor from the disappearing storage panel. Cast from rare Vulcan metals over three hundred years previously but as flawless as new, it gleamed a lusty silver, its embossed calligraphy refracting beads of light against the mirror. When he flicked it open with a practiced twist of fingers, the diamond-honed blade rang out a high, buzzing note of vibration. Sharp. So very sharp.

"No," Kirk said, "I see that you don't."

Spock said nothing, only reached into the storage panel again for his shaving bowl and soap. The bowl too was Vulcan, antique gold-flecked glass and all but priceless, but the soap was Keernalian, and the silkily-textured, fragrant bar was one of but five remaining in the galaxy after the Empire had ordered the _Enterprise_ to demolish the treacherous planet. Spock had the other four bars in storage in his quarters. 

He scraped a few flakes into the bowl and laid the razor aside in favor of the sandalwood brush, frothing the soap into a rich, sweet lather with a few drops of purified water. 

Kirk chuckled.

"Downright luxurious, First Officer," he said, "for a Vulcan, at least."

"If you do not approve of my tastes, you may leave," Spock invited, brushing the foam around the edges of the carefully maintained goatee. The superiority of the soap was immediately apparent, soothing his skin and softening the emerging bristles on his cheeks, filling the air with the subtle fragrance of the now-dead world that had made it.

"Oh, I didn't say I didn't approve of them," Kirk said, and when Spock reached once again for the razor, he found Kirk's hand already closed around the handle. Spock experienced a grudging tremor of respect from somewhere deep in his sharp, cold mind. Kirk moved quickly, for a human. 

"In fact," he continued, "I approve of them most heartily, Spock."

"I would request you leave me to my task, Sir," Spock said, and his voice was as calm as ever, as stoic and Vulcan as ever.

But, also as ever, it couldn't fool his captain.

"I could cut your throat with this," Kirk said, murmured it almost sweetly right into Spock's ear, as he raised the blade to Spock's neck. "See if your blood's as green as you say."

"It is," Spock said. "I can assure you..." 

He felt the blade resting against the bulge of his laryngeal prominence, and the rest of his sentence died away. The metal had warmed from Kirk's hand to human-hot, and his pulse pounded against the hot metal as Kirk first pressed... then slid. In the mirror, he saw the flushed olive color of his own skin reappear in a long streak against the white foam as Kirk flicked the suds into the sink.

Spock's mental tremor was back, and stronger. 

"I bet you'd like to see it," Kirk said, pressing his thumb hard into the sensative flesh beneath Spock's jaw to make him tilt his head. "I bet it'd make you hot. I've seen your room, all that Vulcan-blood-green color hung about. Like a pirate's den in those quarters of yours; you're a sick man, Mr. Spock."

The thin smile curled upward. "Well," he amended, "not a _man_ , of course. But a male, at least."

"How kind of you to have noticed," Spock said. His voice was as calm as ever, but his tongue was heavy in his mouth, tingling and sensitized. His heart rate had increased by a factor of eight point six percent.

"Of course I've noticed," Kirk said, and the razor wicked by the dangling lobe of Spock's right ear so quickly the blade rang out again. "I notice everything. I'm a compassionate man."

"You are many things," Spock observed, "but compassionate is not one of them."

"Aren't I?" Kirk laughed, and the razor's metallic chime sounded again as Kirk slide it against the top of his collarbone. "I've got a blade to your throat and you're still kicking; tell me how I'm uncompassionate."

"Doing so would only do yourself disfavor. Your position is a valuable one; a captain, whose first officer does not desire his position. I do not think you would kill me."

"But you can't be sure."

The tremor skated deeper. Against the metal countertop, Spock's fingers trembled.

"No," he murmured, "I can never be sure."

"Just the way I like it."

The razor slide downward three more times in quick succession, baring Spock's neck of soap and stubble. When it was clean, Kirk's empty hand replaced the blade, fingers digging into the sensitized flesh almost hard enough to bruise, forcing Spock to tilt his head downward. When their eyes met, the mental tremor spiked lower, down through Spock's nerves like a dry desert thunderbolt. His groin began to flush with excess blood.

"Well, I've got that neck of yours shipshape," Kirk purred, "but your face is still a mess."

"Indeed," Spock said, quite softly, and could manage nothing else. He was almost fully erect.

"Get on your knees, First Officer," Kirk purred, "and I'll finish the job."

Of course, there was no need for Spock to submit to him. He was, after all, a Vulcan, with three times Kirk's strength, with greater height and mass and deadlier, more efficient fighting moves. But, as always, there Kirk was, the ropey muscles on his bare arms corded with the force of his grip, lips twisted in that dangerous smile, that burning half-mad ambition gleaming in his eyes. Powerful. This man exuded _power_.

Spock got on his knees.

"Good," Kirk said, "that's good." And then the razor was flicking across his face, moving close enough to his unprotected eyes that the gleaming metal filled his line of vision, sending its reflected light scattering over the walls, slicing away the lather and leaving him bare. 

His Vulcan control was all that saved him from moaning aloud when Kirk laid the razor aside and reached for the fine Risean cotton shaving towel and brushed it roughly across his sensitized skin. When he'd finished he tossed the towel away and ran his strong, rough fingers along the freshly trimmed lines of Spock's beard.

Spock gritted his teeth against a gasp. His skin was splotched with green blush, his erection straining at the zipper of his trousers. 

"I suppose you'll pass muster," the captain mused, simultaneously tightening his grip on Spock's face with one hand and reaching to unbutton his own pants with the other. ”So long as you're willing to submit to inspection."

Spock had no objections.


End file.
